have a bitchin' summer

Why, O Lord,
amidst such bounty and peace
do humans take reason
for suffering and cause still more?

We were all fooled and I'm sorry.
I never quite felt in my heart that Kerry would be a good choice to lead the country; never really wanted him there; only partially bought in to the pitiful, left-wing fever. I saw that I wished for there to be a strong, confident alternative to Bush. In the end now, I see clearer that Kerry was only a pathetic construction put together in imitation of, reaction to the incumbant.
You can't please anyone when you raise your limp-wristed middle finger to the mirror.
I'm kind of glad Bush won this time.
Let the bombs fall.
Let the freedom reign.
And yet I do feel some melancholy. I feel surprised by the seasons of the power of men at this time, as though we were living in the Dark Ages.
Kali Yuga is behind us because Dwapara is defined as 'humans becoming aware of the fine electricities that make up creation.' But damn it if I still feel confused by the intentions and desires of my brothers and sisters:
You're beautiful
but I cannot save you
from the machines
-war, fear, miracle-
of this world.
You must carve your own trail
out and away from speeding tractors'
paths of ruin and ages.
This place would
strap you down
splay you out
as though you were
a cowboy pilgrim's
victory meal
on a sunshiny
Easter Sunday.
You will be groomed
like a prisoner
to the electric chair
if ever you decide to bite,
if ever you choose to
accept completely
any half-assed truths
of all the clutching civilizations
on this planet.
You must let go
of the need
to become too fat
off the riches
-and later an obese zombie
scratching indiscriminately
at doors-
*hopeful eyes*
and waiting for donations.

In your slumber
you are peaceful.
Why do you not bring
that peace to your
waking days?

O bleeding heart of humanity
and open hands of understanding,
where art thou?
Flower of God,
where art thou hidden
inside this trepid war
of life?

When I seek Thee
I have found Thee
betwixt my soul
and the night.
When morning comes,
and I see Thy shining face,
shall I sing with glory
to the patient mountains
or weep for the coming
of another cycle
upon our quaking bones?


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